


Just a Taste

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Breeding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Manipulation, Mind Reading, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: The Archivist does what he has to do to survive. Martin disapproves, right up until he doesn't.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 96





	Just a Taste

The Archivist stands at the top of his tower, eyes unfocused as he surveys his kingdom.

It is barren.

For an endless span of time he has watched over the world that he has shaped in the name of his god, and it has been good. The fears have terrified and fed and they in turn have fed him; his mind growing fat and bloated with a steady stream of food. It is good to feed, to know. He has long forgotten why he resisted in the first place.

But now that it all might be in danger. No one can die in his world, but they can be exhausted, like batteries that have ceased to work but cannot be disposed. The number of these has been increasing steadily enough to cause alarm, and now, for the very first time, a new fear is in danger of being born. One that The Archivist has not experienced, one that may not be under his power. That can't be allowed to happen. The Archivist does not fear Death - even The End is under his sway and there are still many years to go before it has exhausted its supply of food - but he feels a vague twinge of unease when he thinks of this new fear, casting his Eye towards it with the wariness that he might an approaching thunderstorm. Right now it is only the vaguest of rumblings, but that will change. The only way to stop it is to ensure that the other fears will not starve. That they will be fed as well as him.

He casts his Eye inward. His charges are doing well.

There had been some worry, at first. That the children borne of those that had been used up would not be viable, that they would somehow inherit their parent's inability to fear. That the modifications of the Flesh would render them too like one of them for use. He couldn't know until they were born - powerful as the Archivist is, the minds of those in the womb do not know fear and thus are closed to him - but once the first had emerged shrieking from their parents he had known his concerns were unfounded. Babies are born terrified of everything, and their fear is rich and near inexhaustible. Even better, the children born here do not belong to any one fear; they can be passed from domain to domain without any change in the quality of their terror. They will grow, and faster than normal children, but that serves his purpose as well – when they’ve been used they can take their place as incubators, ushering in the next crop of batteries for use.

Once he would have balked at taking such a step. The memory of what he once was is dim, faded, a well-worn letter that he continues to keep more out of nostalgia than any real feeling. It's from before, from a time when he was soft and scared of how good it felt to know. How right. He'd allowed his fear to control him then, let it rule his decisions and called it the smart choice. He knows better now.

"Checking in on the farm?" The voice behind him is bitter, and The Archivist turns to look at its owner with a smile. It feels odd on his face, and must look even worse, because Martin grimaces and looks away. The Archivist allows the smile to drop from his face. Martin glances at him and relief shudders through his mind. He hates when he smiles like that; makes him look too much like Jon.

"I am Jon," The Archivist says, and Martin gives him a dirty look. He has requested that The Archivist stay out of his mind, but he sees no reason to. Martin is as much his as everyone else; it is only his right to know what he is thinking at all times. Still, he usually tries to at least pretend; Martin had been special once. The way he'd felt for him had been wrong, bad for both of them, but it had been good in its way, and The Archivist likes to honor it where he can.

"How is your little breeding ground, then?" Martin asks. The words are laced with bitter despair. He had fought it, at first. Fought and cried and tried too hard to connect to the man that had once loved him more than just about anything, sure that if he could just remind Jon of what he used to be like then it would solve everything. Surely he couldn't be that far gone, Martin had thought at the time. Now he thinks he knows better, but The Archivist knows that he's only fooled himself into believing it. He still thinks that Jon's in him somewhere, hiding, and that all he needs is for Martin to find the right key to let him out. The Archivist knows that it’s impossible – that he is Jon and Jon is him – but it would be cruel of him to say so, and he tries not to be cruel to Martin.

Keeping that in mind, he ignores Martin's question. Martin is disgusted by what is happening at the base of the tower; sickened by The Archivist's experiments and dismayed by the results. He wants this world to end. Telling him that the third batch has worked even better than the first would only hurt him. The Archivist has long since understood that for some, not knowing is a kindness rather than a punishment. He can grant Martin this kindness.

"How are you?" He asks instead. Martin lets out a jagged laugh, hands going to his rounded belly. As if it can feel the pressure, the child inside of him presses back, and Marin aches. The Archivist sees it all, feels Martin's love, his fear and his anger, and he is reaching out before he can stop himself. He wants to feel the press of that hand against his own; wants to share in the moment for real. It's half his, after all.

Martin steps back, out of his reach. "Don't," he says. "I don't want you touching me." _Not again_ , he thinks, and the Archivist knows that this thought he was meant to hear. He had touched Martin plenty before, pressed him down onto the bed and run his hands along his skin, knowing all the places that he needed to touch to have Martin writhing underneath him, lost to the kind of pleasure that he hadn't known he was capable of feeling. He'd begged then, begged to be touched, to be taken. Had spread his legs wide and sobbed when the Archivist entered him, moaning "Jon, Jon," and "yes, more," mind lost to everything but feeling. And it had all felt so good. He’d never felt that way before. He dreams about it sometimes, and in his dreams it isn’t Jon over him and in him but the Archivist. He always wakes up hard, and he hates himself even as he slides his hand down his body, over his swelling stomach and to his prick, stroking himself only a few times before he comes.

“Fine,” he says now. “I’m fine. Wonderful, even. Who wouldn’t be?” His mouth twists and his mind fills with bitter irony. “It’s a dream come true.”

It had been a dream of Martin’s once. To be with Jon, to have Jon wanting him. What he has now is everything he wanted twisted into something he hates.

Wants to hate.

The desire to hate it is what makes him so bitter, the need to despise his life now warring with the fact that he doesn’t, not really. Not nearly enough.

The Archivist reaches out again, and this time Martin doesn’t stop him. He tells himself that there’s no point, but the truth is that he likes it. When the Archivist touches him like this, so gently, Martin can close his eyes and pretend that he’s with the Jon he remembers, even if what he remembers bears little resemblance to what was.

The baby kicks once, twice, as if it knows him. It can’t, the Archivist knows this – if he cannot know it then there is no way it can possibly know him – but he is charmed by it all the same. He strokes his thumbs over the swell of Martin’s belly, watching intently as Martin fights to keep his pleasure from his face.

So much of Martin aches. It isn’t only his body, which is ill-suited for the task that the Archivist has appointed it to and carries the life inside it painfully. If it were just that he could probably handle it. But his heart aches as well, feeling bruised and battered from the loss of his beloved Jon and all his desperate, unsuccessful attempts to get him back. Perhaps it aches even more because deep down, in the darkest parts of himself, he doesn’t hate this as much as he knows he should. Martin doesn’t know this, not consciously, but the Archivist does. Martin always wanted him all to himself, and now he has him. Or as much as the Archivist can give him, which is still more than he ever believed he’d have.

There are wet spots on Martin’s shirt.

The Archivist brushes his hand over one of them, curious. Martin squirms but doesn’t pull away, and he barely manages to bite back the sound that wants to come out of his mouth. It doesn’t matter; the Archivist can feel Martin’s arousal as though it is his own. His own nipples tighten in reaction and heat pools between his legs, making him hard. _Yes,_ he thinks in a voice that isn’t his own, and he leans forward instinctively, driven by the images flashing in Martin’s mind, and places his mouth over the second wet spot on Martin’s shirt.

This time the noise won’t be held back. Martin moans and arches into the Archivist’s mouth. One of his hands slides into his hair, holding him in place. “Yes,” he says, aloud this time, and it’s the Archivist who shudders. Martin’s pleasure, his surrender are nearly overwhelming. It’s intoxicating, wonderful, and the Archivist lets it suffuse his body; he sinks to the floor, pulling Martin along with him, and Martin goes willingly. Of course he does; it’s what he wants, after all. It’s what he came here for.

The Archivist puts his mouth on Martin’s neck, just at his pulse point. It’s where Martin likes it best, and he arches his head back, fingers moving restlessly in the Archivist’s hair, tugging without trying to pull him away. His other hand curls around his own shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric as he squirms under the Archivist. It all feels so good, too good. His legs open, allowing the Archivist to slot between them so that the can grind against each other; Martin hooks his calves around the Archivist’s, bringing them into fuller contact. “Please,” he says. “Please, Jon, please.”

The Archivist's grits his teeth in a brief moment of irritation before opening his mouth over Martin’s pulse. He runs his tongue along it, enjoying the way that it races at his touch. _His_ , whether Martin wants to admit it or not. Martin is hard against him, leaking, hips working helplessly. His arousal is delicious; it winds through the Archivist’s mind and body, making him grow impossibly harder. Making him want as desperately as Martin does. Pictures flash through his mind, a confused jumble of images, all the things that Martin wants him to do to him, and it’s the Archivist who moans, who grinds their erections together. “Yes,” he says.

He pulls back, away from Martin’s warmth, feeling how he aches. Feeling his distaste at being parted from him for even a second. The Archivist smiles and bats Martin’s grasping hands away. He grips the hem of Martin’s shirt and tugs. _Off_.

Martin hesitates, and the Archivist feels a momentary flush of shame. He looks at Martin a moment, at his wide eyes and flushed face, and probes for the source of shame. It isn’t his body – Martin has grown used to the changes and he knows that the Archivist likes to look at it, likes to see the thing that he’s created. It’s that his prick isn’t the only thing that is leaking. It feels odd to him, and he’s afraid that it will put the Archivist off. That it will disgust him, and that he will put a stop to this just when Martin’s stopped pretending it isn’t exactly what he wants. Plus it’s just plain _weird_.

There is nothing that the Archivist could say that would make Martin understand how wrong he is, he knows. Even now, even here Martin is determined to believe the worst. So instead he slips deeper into his mind, winds his own thoughts around Martin’s, soothing him with how much he wants this. This is just another part of Martin to know, and the Archivist wants to know everything. He’s always wanted to know everything. _Off_ , he repeats, and this time Martin lifts his arms obediently and allows the Archivist to pull off his shirt.

The Archivist gazes down at him, eyes drinking in everything that Martin hasn’t allowed him to see. His belly is round and smooth, and the Archivist puts his hands on it, ignoring when Martin tries to push them away. He has wanted this, has kept himself from it for Martin. No more. He leans down and places his mouth on the curve of Martin’s stomach, touching it gently with his lips.

Martin’s own lips part on a soundless gasp, the soft _oh_ of surprise sounding only in their heads. His hands flutter near the Archivist’s body but do not touch, as if he’s afraid, but it’s not fear he feels but bone deep shock. He hadn’t thought that in it was in the Archivist to be this tender. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t want to acknowledge what he’s starting to think it might.

The Archivist gives him nothing. Let Martin think what he likes. Let him believe what he wants. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is everything he’s learning from Martin’s body.

He raises his eyes to Martin’s chest. And yes, he’s leaking. As the Archivist watches, a drop gathers on the tip of one nipple, growing fat and full before sliding off and landing on his belly. Martin twitches and tries to turn away, but the Archivist stops him. _No, don’t. Don’t move._

He licks at the drop, then follows its trail upwards with his tongue. The taste is salty sweet and the Archivist wants more, more. He wraps his mouth around the nipple and sucks.

Martin whines low in his throat and arches into the Archivist’s mouth. His hands find his hair again and he presses the Archivist mouth harder against his chest, his hips stuttering. He’s so close. The Archivist can feel how close he is, the pleasure twisting around his own prick, and he knows how little it will take to finish him off. _Yes_ , he thinks, and sucks harder, drawing more of the salty sweet liquid into his mouth, and Martin babbles a helpless litany of encouragement as his hips jerk and his prick twitches. The Archivist feels him come, feels the way that it sparks along his every nerve, and the only thing that stops him from following is pressing his own hand hard against his aching prick. _That's it, just like that,_ he thinks, and Martin shudders in his arms.

Martin is pliant and drowsy after, all soft sighs and languid shifts as the Archivist divests him of the loose trousers he’s wearing. It’s only when the Archivist maneuvers him to sit in in his lap that he protests, pushing at him with pleasure numbed fingers and trying to move away with legs that are still shaky.

“No, Jon,” he says. “Don’t – I can’t –“

But he can. The Archivist knows that he can, that he wants to. So instead of answering he merely tightens his grip on Martin’s hips and pulls him down inexorably. Martin is bigger than he is, he could probably struggle free if he really wanted to, and if he wasn’t particular about hurting him in the process. But Martin doesn’t struggle that hard, not really. Not with his whole body. The Archivist knows what that feels like, remembers how easily Martin had thrown him off when he’d attempted this before. “No, Jon,” he’d said, and he hadn’t meant it then either but he’d been better able to pretend.

He isn’t able to pretend now.

“I can’t,” he says again when the Archivist is finally buried fully inside of him, the words caught on the end of a gasp. “I ca-it’s too much, Jon, I can’t.” But his hips are moving in small circles, his fingers are clenching and unclenching on the Archivist’s shoulders, and he’s making helpless little noises in the back of his throat, eyelids fluttering. He wants this. Of course he wants this. It’s all he’s been able to think about. Even when he tried to think about something else it was there in the back of his mind, and now he has it he’s not going to turn it away. Not again. Never again.

The Archivist rocks into Martin, slow, the way he wants it. He can feel everything, every bit of shocky pleasure that goes through him when the Archivist angles himself just right, his shaking limbs, his aching nipples. He wants the Archivist to put his mouth there again, wants to feel him drinking from him. The Archivist obliges and Martin moans, the sound high and desperate. His hands scrabble desperately at the Archivist’s shoulders and his head falls back, hips jerking as he comes again.

This time the Archivist allows Martin's pleasure to send him over too, and he jerks his hips up sharply, biting at the nipple in his mouth while he uses his hand to twist the other. Creamy fluid spills over his hand and Martin cries out again, the sound loud, reverberating in the Archivist’s chest.

The Archivist stays inside Martin as long as he can. He’s already done what he needs to do, Martin is carrying his child, but he finds that he wants to stay anyway, wants to keep the moment of connection for as long as possible, and for once he isn’t sure if the idea is his own or Martin’s. Their minds have twisted together so tightly that it’s hard for him to tell their thoughts apart. It is different and unsettling but he thinks he likes it. He never wants it to end.

Eventually though it does. The Archivist slips out of Martin and they both sigh, missing the connection already. When Martin opens his eyes to look at him the Archivist knows that they want the same thing.

The Archivist raises his hand to Martin’s lips. He parts them obediently and takes the Archivist’s fingers in, sucking at the creamy liquid coating them, curious about the taste. When his fingers are clean the Archivist replaces them with his mouth. Martin sucks his tongue the same way he had his fingers and they begin to kiss slow and deep, the way Martin likes it best. The way he always wanted Jon to kiss him and he never did.

They shift to lie side by side on the floor, and it should be cold but they’re warm, their bodies still flushed from exertion and how closely they’re pressed together. They should be on a bed, but neither is willing to move.

Martin’s stomach jumps. The Archivist watches as an impossibly small fist pushes against the skin of Martin’s belly, poking it out. Fascinated, he puts his hand on the spot. The baby responds, giving his hand three quick taps before pressing back firmly.

“Are you going to feed her to the others?” Martin asks, voice trembling, and the Archivist looks up, startled. Martin’s watching him with wary, tear filled eyes, and he suddenly understands. Doesn’t know how he didn’t see this before. How Martin managed to keep the fear buried under so much else that he never thought to look.

“I-“

“I won’t let her be part of your little farm,” Martin says, chin tilted in mulish defiance. His hands go around his belly protectively, knocking The Archivist’s aside in a move he knows is deliberate. “I won’t –“

“No.” The Archivist places one of his hands on top of Martin’s, pushing his fingers between his. Together they rest their hands on the curve of Martin’s belly, and the baby gives a sharp kick, so hard that the Archivist feels it through the back of Martin’s hand. Martin smiles down at their hands, face full of love, and the Archivist feels it fill him.

“No,” he says again, more firmly. “It’s not for them. It’s mine.” The mulish tilt returns to Martin’s jaw and the Archivist amends the statement. “Ours. I-she’s ours.”

“Yes,” Martin says. He doesn’t say the rest, but the Archivist hears it anyway.

He wants this. He always has. Something that ties him and Jon together forever. A reason for Jon to keep him. It isn’t the way he wanted, exactly, but it’s what he has. Martin has always been good at making do.

 _I love you,_ Martin thinks, pretending that the words are for someone else. The Archivist turns away to hide his smile.

He knows better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed, please consider letting me know. :)


End file.
